


I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands

by MissMaudlin



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gratuitous handporn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 07:12:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3372485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMaudlin/pseuds/MissMaudlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands; thy walls are continually before me. - Isaiah 49:16</p>
            </blockquote>





	I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands

I.

Abbie watches Crane’s hands—his hands, which reflect his mood, which speak to her more often than his words do.

Right now, they curl inward before curling outward, dancing rhythmically against his sides. Clearly agitated, she notes. His hands unfurl and his fingers flutter when he’s upset or uncomfortable: she noticed this within days of meeting him. She finds this fascinating to watch, like a wild bird, or perhaps more like a cat flicking its tail. She wonders sometimes if he’s aware of the movement, or if he’s done it for so long that he no longer realizes when he’s doing it.

When she steps toward him, she places a hand on his chest. “It’ll be all right,” she says simply.

He takes a deep breath. His hands slowly still.

II.

Crane is meticulous with his hands: more so than any man she’s ever known. Luke would file his nails on occasion, clip a cuticle when necessary, but nothing beyond that. She’d often complain how rough his hands were and give him lotion to use, but Luke would laugh and ignore her instructions. 

As Abbie sits with Crane tonight, she watches as he files one nail after the other with smooth, short strokes, before brushing the nail and ascertaining if it was filed in a perfect crescent moon. His fingers curl inward and curl outward and she wishes, suddenly, that those fingers would dance across her skin instead.

When Crane glances up at her, he raises an eyebrow. “Something on your mind, Lieutenant?”

Abbie gazes at him for a beat, imagining. But not wishing. She stopped wishing a long time ago.

“No, nothing,” she finally replies.

III.

His hands are bloody and torn and burned, and Abbie mourns that their beauty has been marred. She knows they’ll heal, but they’ll scar, bear the marks of this day forever.

Washing the blood away, she wraps his hands in gauze and then with a clean bandage, crisscrossing his palms and insulating the wounds from infection. 

He’d hurt himself for her, saving her from that demon that scored his hands with its claws and burned them for good measure. He’d never wavered, though, and stabbed the creature in the throat moments later.

“Thank you. For what you did back there,” she says as she sets his right hand back on his thigh.

Crane covers her hand with his own before she realizes what he’s doing, the warmth of his thigh radiating through her palm. His thumb strokes hers ever so lightly. “Of course, Lieutenant,” he says, in tones that creep into her heart and curl around it, tones that are soft and lovely and brimming with hope.

IV.

It’s raining. But it’s not a cold rain: it’s a warm, steady rain, a rain you get in the summer, one that makes the land smell like beginnings and renewals.

Crane watches her with an intensity that sets her skin prickling. A drop of rain trails down her face, down her chin, hanging for a moment until gravity pulls it downward. 

Lifting his hand, Crane strokes the drop of rain with a single finger: slowly tracing the line of water down her throat until he reaches the dip between her collarbone. He then traces back upward with a second finger, stroking so lightly it’s like a butterfly against her skin.

Abbie closes her eyes as his hand lifts her chin, as his thumb brushes against her bottom lip. And she trembles only slightly when he kisses her.

V.

The winter has been brutal this year with a cold that reaches into your bones and makes them shiver.

As she lies in bed with Crane, she realizes his hands are red and cracked. She’s surprised, as he’s usually so fastidious about his hands. Sitting up, she grabs the bottle of shea butter lotion from her nightstand. 

“Sit up, Crane,” she tells him, and he does as she says with only one eyebrow raised.

Lifting his left hand from the sheets, she spreads the lotion across the back of his hand, massaging it into the knuckles before working it into each finger: first his thumb that directs his pen across paper; his index finger that brushes her hair from her forehead; his middle finger that grips her wrist to pull her closer; his ring finger that wears the symbol of their union; his pinky that she likes to nip on occasion. She watches as he licks his lips slightly as he watches her ministrations.

When she finishes his other hand, he grabs the bottle from her and squeezes a dollop of the lotion onto his own palm. “Now, it’s your turn,” he says before taking her right hand.

It’s not long before she’s on her back with his hands all over her body, stroking, teasing, dancing, even scratching and pinching. Abbie laughs and moans and sighs and her skin almost vibrates under his touch, the light callouses of his fingers magnifying the sensations.

Later, they lie quietly together, Crane’s arm draped over her, his left hand splayed in front of her, and she remembers everything they’ve done for her and everything they will do for her. She then lifts his hand toward her mouth before kissing his fingers one by one: it’s five vows of her own, vows of eternities and love unending.


End file.
